


Bad Moon Rising

by nirejseki



Series: Bad Moon Rising [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, Mick had averted his eyes from both Len and the bandage around his arm that only served as a reminder of the bite mark underneath, and said, stiffly, staring at the wall, “You should probably go – ”</p><p>Len had snapped, “Don’t be fucking absurd. We’ll <i>deal</i> with it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Response to tumblr prompt: I'd love to request a sex pollen/magic made them do it/something of that variety 
> 
> For no reason, with added werewolves.

It was the particle accelerator that had brought them all out of wherever they’d been hiding.

Len’s still not sure what it was about that stupid explosion that did it, but it acted like some sort of beacon, drawing the supernatural out of the shadows and into the light. Where, before, vampires and werewolves and lightning spirits were the stuff of legend and bad late-night television, now they were all too real. Now they stalked the streets of Central like it was the backlot of a Hollywood monster film.

Len hadn’t cared at first – he’d been thrilled, actually; he’d always had a terrible weakness for those so-called ‘urban fantasy’ books and shows, though he liked to pretend that it was because he enjoyed mocking the terrible acting and even worse dialogue, which admittedly was also true – but it had made him up his game to deal with both the creatures themselves and the precautions people took against them. First the police set up guards against them, and then City Hall set up hotlines for "affected individuals" to dial in and get advice, and then people started planning their security with an eye towards the supernatural. And then the local lightning spirit had decided to take on the role of city protector for himself, and that had changed the game again. Len thought it was all in good fun.

He’d thought that right up until a slavering moon-mad monster in black and grey fur had risen up in the darkness of an alleyway he’d thought was abandoned, howled at the moon, and lunged for Len’s throat in search of a bloody snack.

Oh, the werewolf hadn’t gotten to him; Len would be dead and pale and unmoving on a morgue slab if he had. That werewolf hadn’t been playing around. No, the werewolf was quick, but it was focused on Len and Len on it, and neither of them had been able to stop Mick from darting between them, arm thrown up and into the monster’s jaws to stall him while Mick pushed his heat-gun into the creature’s stomach and fired, point-blank. That was Mick, though; for as long as Len can remember, Mick’s been stepping up to protect him, putting himself between danger and Len.

This time, though, when the smell of charred flesh had mostly faded and they cleaned away the ashes, Len quietly frantic as he poured iodine on the ravaged flesh of Mick’s left arm, something got left behind. Something _extra_. The consequences of Len’s constant searches for adrenaline, but paid by Mick instead, because Mick would always pay Len’s debts if he could.

Afterwards, Mick had averted his eyes from both Len and the bandage around his arm that only served as a reminder of the bite mark underneath, and said, stiffly, staring at the wall, “You should probably go – ”

Len had snapped, “Don’t be fucking absurd. We’ll _deal_ with it.”

And they had, to a certain degree. It’d taken a few weeks and a high fever before it kicked in: the way Mick’s face would become more bestial when he was angry, the way his fingers lengthened into claws in a fight, the dents he left on the wall when he would hit it in his anger.

But honestly, it wasn’t so different than managing Mick’s normal quick-fire temper. Sure, now Len’s partner had the ability to turn into a giant, fur-covered monster out of a bad nightmare, his bones snapping awfully and rearranging themselves as he howled out his rage and agony to the uncaring moon above – Len had vomited the first time he’d seen the full transformation, the first time in decades – but the same principles applied. 

Mick in a temper had to be contained, fed, distracted, controlled, appeased. Mick in a bout of lycanthropic fury was much the same – more raw beef, less barbeque, a weird new fascination with certain Discovery Channel documentaries, sure, but Len can handle it.

Len _is_ handling it. He’s not going to let Mick pull some stupid martyrdom shit and go off alone to go mope about how Len ruined his life. Mick is his _partner_.

Now if only he could hammer the fact that he’s got this whole werewolf thing under control into this stupid sorceress’ head. She’d been ranting for something like ten minutes now, all “werewolves are vile monsters” this and “uncontrolled slobbering beasts” that, and “werewolves are creatures of pure evil” which given that Len literally just interrupted her human sacrifice ceremony, Len personally thinks is a little hypocritical of her. He can’t wait for the Flash to show up to kick her ass, but since the lightning spirit is off trying to stop the sorceress’ homunculi from collecting even _more_ victims, Len’s going to have to settle for a stall. 

He does wish he could get to his cold gun, though. The sorceress had knocked both their guns across the room before she’d started ranting. Len’s been edging slowly to the left in an attempt to see if the sorceress was distracted enough by Mick’s mere existence that she’d fail to notice a blatant attempt to scoot this entire conversation over enough that Len could reach his gun – moderate success so far, since he needs to stop and pretend to be listening every time she turns to him for agreement like he’s her supportive audience or something. Len doesn’t know what type of crazy she’s on, but he’s vaguely reminded of a political rally or a very particular type of church service.

(In his defense, he’d been there to steal the church silver but in the end he’d very nearly called the whole thing off because he’d been so goddamn creeped. And people say _werewolves_ are scary.) 

“– are creatures of the _id_ , following their basest instincts at every turn! They devalue the entire supernatural community! They are _beasts_ , not men! We are greater than mere humankind, their natural predators, their superiors, an _elevation_ above the merely mortal, and these wretched creatures shame us all with their foul, fetid appetites, the disgusting way they endlessly gorge themselves on their lusts and their vices – ”

How the hell is she _still going_? A werewolf insult her mother once or something? Len glanced over at Mick, who shot him a helpless “what do I do about this?” expression.

Len returns the expression, then flicks his eyes meaningfully. On the silent count of three, they both take a step to the left, causing the sorceress to turn a little to continue ranting at them without noticing that Len’s only about ten feet from his cold gun now. 

“– oh, yes, some people try to cover for these putrid stinking creatures, these obscene brutes, these vile, _malignant_ dogs, try to say that they can control their unspeakable tastes, but I know better! I know what they really are! Oh, and I’ll show them, I’ll show them all the _truth_! No werewolf is innocent! No werewolf can escape my wrath! And you, wretched creature, will be the instrument of my truth, the vessel for my merciless justice –”

That part has Len more worried than the previous, more general ranting, particularly when the sorceress starts digging around in her pockets for something undoubtedly nefarious. He shares an alarmed glance with Mick and decides to forgo subtlety, turning and dashing for his cold gun at top speed.

He gets the cold gun into his hands and spins to fire it on her, only to see her blow some glittery powder in Mick’s face. Mick staggers back, trying to evade it, but ends up falling on his ass, sneezing. He looks a bit ridiculous that way; Len wishes he thought that ridicule was her only goal.

Len forgoes firing at her for now, striding forward instead and snarling, “What did you do to him?”

She spins around to him, having clearly forgotten Len was there, then starts cackling victoriously. “It’s too late!” she cries. “I’ve got him now – now you’ll see what he really is – the filth, the obscenity, the – ”

Len fires at her hand. She shrieks as the cold beam comes close enough to blacken her skin, icicles and dead flesh forming from the tips of her fingers all the way up to the middle of her arm. “Enough of the crap,” Len snaps at her, pointing his gun at her. “ _What did you do to him?_ ”

She’s clutching at her arm. “I unleashed his foulest instincts,” she pants, her eyes still crazed. “I unleashed the _beast_. I –”

“If you don’t start speaking English soon, you’re going to lose another hand,” Len says.

Something in his tone must convince her that he’s serious. “Werewolves are creatures of insatiable lusts,” she snarls. “The powder will not let him rest until he has satisfied those lusts – he’ll turn it onto the nearest creature he can, some poor innocent girl, no doubt, and he’ll be so crazed with lust, he won’t have the presence of mind to hide away his crime – everyone will see what he’s done, what he _is_ –”

Len starts raising the gun again, out of fury rather than threat, but at just that minute the Flash appears in the room with a clap of thunder at his heels. “I put a stop to your homunculi,” he reports, then does a double take at the sight of her hand. He glances at Len. “Was that necessary?”

“She was casting,” Len says, opting not to tell the Flash about the kind of malediction she’d opted to aim at Mick. He glances at Mick, who’s still sitting where he fell, a strangely confused expression on his face. Len needs to get him out of here _now_. “Had to stop her. You got this covered?”

“Oh yeah,” the Flash says, turning to her with a smirk and lifting up his gauntleted hands. “These babies will neutralize anything she tries to throw at me.”

Len briefly contemplates a universe where the Flash was just a little bit faster and had been hit with the powder of insatiable lust instead of Mick, sadly wishes that universe good-bye, and turns instead to drag Mick out of there.

Mick’s no rapist; at his very worst moments, in the pits of prison where the real beasts of mankind came out to play, he was always the one standing between the monsters and their prey. Len’s not about let some sorceress with delusions and magic powder make Mick do something that he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

Mick is compliant enough, still dazed from whatever it is that the sorceress threw at him, which makes it easier for Len to hustle him over to a car – Len just goes with the nearest one, shoving Mick into the passenger’s seat and climbing into the driver’s seat to hotwire the fucker himself, and the fact that Mick doesn’t start fussing over Len driving is the surest sign that something’s gone wrong – and drive him over to the safe house on Thompkins. 

The safe house on Birch is closer, the one they’ve been staying at, but Thompkins is more secure. It used to be a bank, before the economy kicked its ass and absorbed it back into the assortment of empty buildings that perennially dot Central’s streets; it’s still got steel on the door and in the walls. Len gets Mick inside – Mick’s dazed expression hasn’t faded, but he’s starting to look more alert – and locks the door behind him.

When he turns around, Mick is staring at the window.

It’s not _quite_ a full moon – they would’ve never gone out if it was, the Flash calling for aid or not – but it’s perilously close. Close enough that Mick’s temper and instability are elevated by the call of the moon in his blood; he’s far closer to savagery during this time of the month. If only the sorceress incident could have happened during the new moon, then Len would have no fear, but now…

Len grits his teeth and takes his cold gun and Mick’s heat gun to lock them away in the gun safe they rarely use, tossing his parka into the corner as he does. He’s not going to abandon Mick now, and the guns aren’t going to help him with that. He needs to get them out of the way before Mick lashes out at them or, worse, at him _with_ them. 

Len’s just finished locking them away, changing the password so it’s still something Mick knows in case he needs to access the safe but not the one he would automatically enter in so that he’d have to think about what he was doing instead of acting on instinct, when Mick speaks up behind him.

“Len,” Mick says, his voice slurred like he’s been drinking. “I need to go out.”

Len swallows and rises to his feet, turning back to Mick. “No can do, partner,” he says as jauntily as he can, playing it cool. “It’s not a good night –”

Mick turns eyes already starting to go yellow around the edges on him. “I _need_ to go out, Len,” he says. “I need…”

Len’s eyes flicker up and down Mick’s body, which is clearly already starting to react to the powder. “Yeah,” he says grimly. “I can see what you _need_. But you ain’t going out tonight, Mick. It’s not a good idea.”

Mick’s fingers stretch out and then clench, his knuckles going white. “Len, you don’t understand. I gotta find someone. A girl. I need a girl.” 

His eyes glow wholly yellow and Len can hear the creak of bone starting the process of realigning. Mick gets big when he shifts, his already broad shoulders getting even larger, his height growing from tall to inhuman, slouched over to accommodate his massive bulk, his jaw growing long and thick and canine, his teeth long and deadly, his eyes yellow points of light in a dark night. He’ll grow claws instead of fingers, his wrists and calves cracking and changing shape to accommodate the large pads on his palms and feet for when he drops and runs four-legged in a wild, loping chase, but he’ll retain his thumbs; he’s a werewolf, after all, not a natural wolf. No tail, though. Len had been disappointed.

No girl would take him like this, and Mick wouldn’t be able to take no for an answer. He’s out of his mind with desperation already.

“You don’t need a girl,” Len says, checking to make sure that the door is locked and then sauntering closer to Mick. This is a terrible idea, but he can’t think of anything else; he’d call-order a hooker, a supernatural hooker if he could, if he could trust Mick to control himself with her, but he can’t, and Mick would regret that as much as any other girl. “You’ve got me. Partners, right? I’ve got your back.” _And your front_ , Len thought to himself, conman smile twisting wry and real on his face. 

“You don’t understand,” Mick says, his voice low and raspy. His eyes are wide and he shifts his stance uncomfortably, his erection straining in his pants. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Mick’s been living a virtually celibate life since the bite; Len estimates it’s probably the longest he’s gone without outside of solitary. Len’s been letting him get away with it, figuring he just needed time to adjust to his new situation, but enough is enough. Mick _needs_ him. Every time Len has needed something, Mick has been there for him; being there for Mick is the least he can do.

Besides, he’s pretty sure that no matter how crazed Mick gets, he won’t hurt Len. 

Mostly sure. 

Well, he hopes, anyway.

Len takes another step forward. Mick doesn’t move away, just stands there, staring at him, fists clenched. Len takes another step, then another, telegraphing his moves as clearly as he can. He’s not going to force Mick into this; if Mick wants to go hide in the never-deconstructed safe and batter the walls until they’re bloody and dented, he can. But Len doesn’t think that’s an option tonight, not with the way Mick’s swaying a little, like he’s unsteady on his feet, the way his eyes flicker to the window and the almost full moon, the way his nostrils flare as Len gets closer.

Len comes up until he’s standing right before Mick, reaching out and pressing his hand onto Mick’s hip. Not even anywhere sensitive, but Mick still shudders when he does. “Len – ”

“I got you,” Len says. “It’s okay, Mick. I promise. It’s _okay_.”

Len sees the second Mick’s already tenuous control snaps its last thread, but he doesn’t see much more than that, because the next second he’s being slammed against the wall so hard the breath gets pushed out of his body in an involuntary huff. Mick’s all over him, ripping off his jacket – literally, a large chunk of jacket falls to floor, one arm still on and the other one half-torn but nowhere near off – and their bodies are pressed right up against each other, Mick’s larger bulk crowding Len into the wall as he runs his hands up and down Len’s body, his face buried in the side of Len’s neck where he’s inhaling Len’s scent like it’s oxygen after surfacing from a long dive. 

Len shudders, but not from fear. This is Mick. This is his partner of nearly thirty years. This is fine. 

This is…actually kind of hot, really. Len’s big enough himself that most people won’t try to toss him around anymore, and Mick just shoves him up the wall, letting Len wraps his legs around him, holding him there as they grind together like it’s effortless. 

Mick rips off the last of the jacket with one hand, catching Len’s jaw with the other and pulling him into a brutal kiss. Len can feel the strange texture of Mick’s palm on his cheek, rougher, coarser, suited for running through the night, but Mick’s mouth on his is reassuringly human. He kisses back as hard as he can, trying to match Mick’s intensity, but that’s a lost cause tonight. Mick’s everywhere, his enhanced speed – nothing like the Flash, but still far faster than a regular human – helping him move his hands over Len’s body, pushing up under his shirt, mapping every each inch of it with fingers and thumbs, caressing, stroking, pinching, twisting. 

Len feels himself get fully hard; Mick’s been there since they walked into the safe house, probably since the sorceress’ powder hit his face and he inhaled it, but Len’s been too distracted by his fear for Mick to really get into it. But Mick seems to have taken the bait: he won’t go out, won’t hunt down some girl and lose control, won’t find a hooker and wake up to her battered body in his bed the next morning. No, Len can give as good as he gets, and unlike some random girl, he’ll make _sure_ Mick knows he’s consenting all the way through this, cut off the guilt before it gets a chance to grow and fester. 

He slips a hand down to where their bodies are rubbing up against each other, the friction almost painful with Mick’s urgency, and he palms Mick’s cock. “Let me,” he pants. “Let me _down_ , Mick – I’ll make it worth your while – ”

Mick pulls away from where he’s been leaving a hell of a hickey on Len’s neck – Len usually meets up with the Flash for a download report after these sorts of joint projects, find out what the Flash has done with them to ensure he isn’t up to his old stupid secret-prison tricks again, but even a turtleneck sweater won’t hide the evidence this time – and just _carries_ Len over to the mattress they’ve got shoved in the corner for unwanted guests or urgent collapses, one hand sliding down to cup Len’s ass while the other one curls around the back of his neck as Mick hoists him up, easy as anything. He drops Len down on his ass on the mattress, eyes flashing yellow every few seconds, one hand reaching out to caress Len’s scalp. “Yeah, Lenny,” he slurs. “You make it worth my while, you do that –”

Len scrambles onto his knees, reaching up and undoing Mick’s pants, pulling out Mick’s cock and leaning forward to wrap his mouth around the tip as quick as he can; Mick doesn’t really seem like he’s in the mood for anything too drawn out.

“– yeah, that _mouth_ of yours, fuck, just look at you, on your knees for me – yeah, _take it_ , take it in, you can do it, stuff that mouth of yours full of my cock till sucking it’s the only thing you know how to do anymore – show you what it’s good for –”

Len moans around Mick’s cock, his own cock twitching in response to Mick’s words. He’s always had a bit of a never-stated-aloud thing for Mick’s voice; it’s deeper than his own tenor, full and sonorous, gravelly yet full-throated. The sort of voice that shakes in your bones. 

Never had a thing for dirty talk before, but it seems to be hitting all of his buttons today, so Len’s not complaining.

Mick slides his hands, both his hands, around Len’s skull, his thumbs pressing lightly on Len’s forehead before sliding around till he has a solid grip on Len’s head. Len forgoes any tricks he might have thought of trying to employ, any finesse, just sits back on his heels, spreading his legs as he did, bracing his hands on Mick’s hips in a probably vain attempt to slow Mick down if he needs to, and lets Mick fuck his face. Mick moves slow at first, a heavy weight on Len’s tongue, but then he gets into it, hips thrusting forward in short, stuttering motions. 

“Fuck, Lenny, just look at you, you _like_ this, don’t you, like me using you like this – just taking what I want – yeah, suck me like you mean it – yeah, you’ll do anything for me right now, won’t you, just as long as I give you what you want –”

Len whimpers a little bit, the way his cock is reacting drowning out the way his jaw is starting to ache, flicking his eyes up to look at Mick’s face, staring down at him, intent and intense. 

“Yeah,” Mick says, meeting his eyes dead on. “Like that.” 

And then suddenly he pulls Len’s head back, off of him, Mick’s cock sliding out of Len’s mouth with a pop, and he pushes Len back onto the mattress with an abrupt shove, his face twisting into a snarl. “It’s not enough,” he growls. “It’s not _enough_ , I need _more_ –” 

Len licks his swollen lips, Mick’s eyes fastening on them as he does. Once he’s got Mick’s attention, he reaches down and undoes his pants, shimmying out of them as quick as he can – he likes these pants, these are good pants, there’s no need to destroy these pants the way his jacket went – and Mick’s eyes follow him when he does that, too. He pulls of his shirt next, peeling it off a little slower to conceal the fact that he’s edging over to the side table. There’s lube there, by the TV, for when someone’s watching porn; he’s going to need it. Mick doesn’t entirely look sane enough to remember the little things, and if Len’s got to bet on it, Mick’s instincts are screaming for a girl now, warm and wet, not a guy like Len. 

He’s _almost_ to the side table when Mick growls again, low and bestial, and moves, blurring forward near as fast as the Flash to Len’s human eyes, pushing Len down and pinning him with hands that Len hopes are still mostly human. The shirt is tossed away, leaving Len bare and vulnerable before Mick, and then Mick’s running his tongue down Len’s collarbone, down his chest, his arms, his hips.

Len’s cursing up a storm as Mick laps at his stomach, ignoring his cock entirely, his hands spreading Len’s legs as his mouth moves over Len’s torso, licking and sucking and nibbling, and fuck, Len’s going to be covered from head to toe in Mick’s marks tomorrow, obvious in every move that he makes that Mick had him tonight, had him thoroughly, marked him up as his own – and fuck, Len finds that so hot, the thought of it, Mick doing it on purpose, knowing that even if Len tries to cover it up with his usual clothing, anyone who looks at them is going to know – 

Mick pushes Len’s legs up – Len makes a sound of protest, worried that Mick’s going to go for him now, no prep or anything – and then he _keens_ , making a sound he’s never made before, hands digging into the mattress as Mick leans forward instead, tonguing him with a tongue that feels almost too long and agile to be human, letting Len get the first shock of sensation before flipping him over on the mattress till he’s facedown, ass in the air, and then he goes for it.

Len’s been rimmed before, but not like this. It’s not that the actions are any different from what he’s used to, but Mick’s intensity, his speed, his strength all play in to make so good it almost hurts. Len’s eyes start rolling back in his head as he futilely tries to shove himself back up into Mick’s face and hump the mattress at the same time, clawing at it in a way that would have it torn to shreds if he had Mick’s claws, wave after wave of pleasure. 

It’s only years of experience at controlling himself – through pain, admittedly, not pleasure – that lets him keep the presence of mind to reach out and yank the stupid side table towards him, toppling it sideways and making the contents of the drawers all fall out. Lube, fuck it, he needs _lube_ – Mick slides a finger into him next to his tongue and that makes him cry out at the suddenness of it, the finger sliding it rough with only spit to slick it, stinging a little at the friction of it but it feels so good – and Len sees the tube of it lying there and grabs at it, thrust it back towards Mick. “Prep me, _fuck_ , I need lube, you need to prep me if you’re going to fuck me – ”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Mick growls, low and deep in his chest, and Len shudders all over, falling back forward onto his face and pulling his knees in and spreading them as far as he can so that he’s wide open in front of Mick. “I’m going to fuck you till you can’t walk tomorrow, that’s what I’m gonna do, Lenny, gonna fuck you – ” He takes the lube, thank god, and Len feels the cool liquid drip on his ass, Mick pulling his fingers out to coat them before sliding one back in, then another, prepping him, stretching him. “ – you’re going to be begging me, calling my name, Lenny, you’re gonna _love_ it, not going to be able to get enough of it – ”

“Yes, yes,” Len urged him along, hitching up his hips. “C’mon, Mick, you can do it, I want you to do it – I want you to fuck me – _yes_ , Mick, I’m saying yes – ”

Mick roars and drops the lube, pulling Len up with a short jerk till he’s on his hands and knees and pushing him forward till he’s nearly up to the wall, crawling onto the mattress after him, and Len can feel Mick’s cock pressing up against him; it’s too fast, but at least there’s lots of lube. Fuck, and Mick’s bare, too – Len didn’t think to hand him a condom, and he doesn’t think Mick would accept one if he tried to offer one now. It’s been a long while since Len’s gone bareback with anyone, a long time since he’s felt heated flesh within him instead of the stretch of latex or the cool silicone of one of his toys. 

Len spares a moment to hope that lycanthropy isn’t sexually transmitted as well as passed on by bite, or he’s going to end this night a lot furrier than he would’ve hoped. He doesn’t really care that much if he does, honestly; Mick’s already learned to mostly control himself on full moons, and if Mick can do it, so can Len. They’re partners, after all; they’ll figure it out together if they have to. He tries to relax as best as he can, holding up one hand and bracing it against the wall in front of him as Mick pushes inexorably in, holding Len open with one hand and guiding himself in with the other. 

It’s painful at first – Mick’s fucking huge, fuck, Len’s seen enough of him in the showers over the years to know that going in – but Len breathes it out, rocking his hips slightly to try to accommodate the girth of him, the length. He’s managing it, taking Mick in inch by inch, and then Mick wraps a hand around Len’s hip.

There are claws at the end of that hand, lightly pricking Len’s thigh where they’re curled.

Len shudders when he realizes that Mick’s got to be half transformed – the mattress is by the window, the almost-full moon shining down on them – his eyes probably fully yellow and his tongue too long as he runs it along the back of Len’s neck – he doesn’t know what it says about him when the fact that he realizes this just makes him hotter than ever. This is who Mick is now, and Mick is _his_ , his in all the ways that matter. Mick could rip him apart right now if he wanted to, but he’s moving slow and steady, little pauses to let Len adjust to him, his fraying control belying the sorceress' earlier claims of bestial, insatiable appetite. 

God, _Mick_. It’s the greatest adrenaline rush in the world, knowing himself to be at someone’s mercy and _not caring_. He trust Mick not to hurt him, even now. Especially now.

He groans when Mick finally, _finally_ , bottoms out. “You like that?” Mick pants in his ear. “You like that, me filling you up?” 

Len’s panting too hard to responding, pushing himself backwards a bit in his eagerness for Mick to start moving.

“I’m gonna wreck you,” Mick says, starting to pull out, nice and slow, before sliding back in. “I’m gonna put my mark on you, Lenny, inside and out; I’m going to fill you up, gonna make sure your body knows you’re mine…”

Len _mewls_ in response to that, and he's too turned on to care. 

“Oh, yeah, you like that, don’t you? I’m gonna keep you in here till I’m done with you – gonna fuck you now and fuck you later, gonna wreck your ass till you’ve got no choice but to lie here all day to recover, and I’m gonna come by any time I like and fuck you again – I’m gonna fill you up with my come till you’re dripping with it, get you as wet as any girl – _fuck_ , Lenny – ”

He’s thrusting in and out in earnest now, long strokes that are so good, so perfect, right where Len wants them. Len scrabbles his hand against the wall and reaches down to jerk himself off, since Mick’s too busy driving him wild to bother with a reach-around. It’s so good, it’s _so good_ – 

“You’re going to be mine,” Mick whispers in his ear. “All mine, now and forever, I’m going to keep you, going to make you my pack, my mate, my _partner_ –”

Len cries out and comes, right there, faster and more helplessly than he has in at least a decade, hand flying over his cock as he spurts over the mattress. Mick mercilessly continues thrusting, wrapping both hands over Len’s hips to keep them up as Len collapses down face-first into the mattress, working Len’s limp body like it’s a toy for Mick’s pleasure, and that feels good too. Len’s brain sends off a few sparks of pleasure as Mick brushes by his prostate, Len’s spent cock unable to do anything about it and he moans. 

He’s overly sensitive after coming, every brush of Mick’s fingers against him raw against his nerves, every move of Mick’s cock inside of him like touching a live wire, and Mick pulls him up again to lick at the side of Len’s throat again. “Mine,” he slurs, hips moving faster as he nears his own orgasm. “ _Mine_.”

“Yeah, Mick,” Len says, slurring as well, high on endorphins and some weird twisting happy feeling in his gut. “I’m yours. All yours.”

Mick howls, full-on _howls_ , and he comes. Fuck, it seems to go on forever and Len can feel it, spurt after spurt inside of him; he never bothered to check what sort of sexual differences there were for werewolves – who would he even ask? – and he doesn’t know if it’s normal or just how long it’s been for Mick, but that’s got to be unnatural. He can feel it dripping down his thighs even as Mick gives one or two final thrusts. 

Breathing hard, Mick finally pulls out and collapses next to Len on the mattress. Len, for his part, happily slips forward and goes straight into a doze. He knows he’ll be disgusting tomorrow, annoyed about sleeping in the wet spot, but he hasn’t gotten it given to him like that in a hell of a long time and he’ll worry about it in the morning. 

Mick’s running his hand down Len’s back. He’s always been unnaturally peppy after he’d gotten laid; Len’s bumped into more than one of Mick’s playmates dazedly walking out of the bathroom while Mick puttered around the kitchen happily making them food before he kicked them out. He’ll collapse sooner rather than later, though; transformations, even partial ones, always take a lot out of him.

A thought occurs to Len and he blindly reaches out to grab Mick’s hand. “You need anything else tonight,” he says, mumbling into the mattress, “you come to me, got it? Just me. No one else.”

Mick’s laugh rumbles deep in his belly; Len can almost feel it. “Sure, boss,” he says, and he sounds like _Mick_ again, good old Mick. “Whatever you say.”

“Just me,” Len repeats, shaking Mick’s hand for emphasis, and falls asleep.

\--------------

Len wakes up the next morning feeling really good. At least until he tries to move and his body abruptly decides to remind him that he got fucked good and proper last night and also that it hates him personally. Ouch. 

He’s also clean, in his own bed, and wearing his sleep clothing – loose-hanging shirt with long sleeves but a low neckline and sweats that hang low on his hips – and he _knows_ he didn’t do that himself.

Right, time to attack the moping Mick in his natural territory: the kitchen.

Len’s legs and ass are sore when he gets up, but it’s nothing compared to a broken bone or a gunshot wound, so he ignores it, stretching out a bit as he gets up, and eventually the pain fades to a tolerable ache. When he feels like he can walk without being too obvious about it – oh, Mick’s going to be able to tell that that he’s feeling it, but he’s not going to be limping all over the place like a prima donna – he heads out.

Sure enough, Mick’s in the kitchen, because according to him breakfast is the most important meal of the day even if it’s had in the afternoon and by god they will have breakfast if Mick has to force it down Len’s throat himself. There’s a stack of fat buttermilk pancakes already laid out on the table, Len’s favorite, butter and maple syrup and chopped up berries and freshly homemade whipped cream (really, Mick?) on the side, and Mick’s by the stove frying up some bacon.

To Len’s surprise, though, Mick’s not all hunched over the pan like he is when he feels he’s done something wrong, like after a heist has gone wrong because of something Mick’s done or after he’s brought home someone he thinks Len will disapprove of. His back is straight and he’s freaking _whistling_. 

Len nods to himself, pleased. Guilt crisis averted. Well done, Len.

He walks into the kitchen and Mick – who’s almost certainly heard him lingering by the door, what with those enhanced werewolf senses – turns around with a grin. “Made you pancakes, boss,” he says, gesturing at the table. “Plain buttermilk for the first round – you want chocolate chips or blueberries in the second?”

There’s a bowl of batter sitting by the stovetop, now that Len looks that way. “Chocolate chips,” Len decides, then goes to sit down at his place at the table.

Mick’s eyes follow him as he does and when Len inevitably ends up wincing when his ass hits the seat, Mick’s grin stretches out to something positively wolfish. He turns back to the pan to finish up with the bacon, starting to hum whatever it was he was trying to whistle earlier. Len eyes the platter of pancakes and serves himself three. He deserves it.

He takes a bite of one of the pancakes and they’re fluffy and soft and warm. Mmmmm. He _always_ deserves Mick’s pancakes. Why doesn’t he demand pancakes more often?

Mick is snickering by the stove.

“What?” Len asks, more focused on trying to pour maple syrup on the left-most pancake while reserving the right-most pancake for the berries and cream than on Mick’s response. 

“Nothing,” Mick says cheerfully. “Just enjoy making you moan is all.”

Len chokes on his next bite of pancake before hastily swallowing it. He’d rather thought when he’d seen how cheerful Mick was that they were going to skip over past ‘awkward thanks for the assist’ portion of the morning to go straight into the realm of ‘not talking about it ever again’, but apparently Mick isn’t of the same mind. 

Okay. Unusual, but he can deal with that. 

“Well, you know, your pancakes,” he says, then mentally smacks himself upside the head. That was not cool, Len, not cool at _all_.

“No need to worry, Lenny,” Mick says earnestly. “I’ll keep you satisfied.”

He sniggers when Len glares at him. 

“You’re remarkably cheerful today,” Len says, aiming for casual but probably just coming off as puzzled.

“It’s a good day,” Mick says, using a spatula to move the bacon over to a plate and carrying it over to the table. Len eyes it hungrily, distracted even from Mick’s bizarrely peppy behavior by the crackling meat with its tempting, glistening fat. Bacon: downfall of good Jews everywhere. “Sun’s shining, moon’s close, mate’s happy, what’s not to like?”

Len’s nodding amiably, reaching out for the bacon as Mick puts it down on the table, when the words finally register. 

“How’s that last bit again?” he asks.

Mick moves around behind him and puts his hands down on Len’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into Len’s shoulder blades quiet pleasantly. “Like I said,” he says, voice low and smugly pleased. “I’ll keep you satisfied, Lenny. Now eat up, you’ll need lots of energy for later.”

“What are we doing later?” Len says warily. He didn’t recall making any plans, unless one counted the inevitable follow-up with the Flash that would happen in the next few days.

Mick kneads Len’s shoulders until the tension starts to draw out of Len’s back.

“You know, a while back, you told me I needed to talk to someone about the whole werewolf thing,” Mick says thoughtfully as he works out the knots in Len’s shoulders. “Someone with a bit more experience.”

“Yeah,” Len says, not quite following the change in subject but willing to follow Mick’s lead. Especially if he keeps doing that with his hands. “You do that?”

“Yeah, figured it wouldn’t hurt. Called one of the ones down by City Hall, the hotlines they put up when all the supes came out of hiding, you know? Had a little chat about it. He said some interesting things. Explained some things that werewolves do differently than humans. Differently than regular wolves, too.”

“Oh?” Len takes a bite of the crispy bacon. 

“Yeah, there’s a whole social instinct in there. How are the pancakes?”

“They’re very good, as always,” Len says, taking a bite of the pancakes as well. He’s still not entirely sure where Mick is going with all this, but sure, he’ll play along. Especially if Mick keeps doing that thing with his thumbs and Len’s shoulder blades. “What social instinct?”

“Oh, you know,” Mick says. “How werewolves make packs, mates, that sort of thing.”

“Packs?” Len says, with a frown. He didn’t like the idea of Mick going off and finding a pack. He knows there’s a registry down at City Hall for that very purpose, to go along with the hotline they set up once the supernatural became a generally accepted facet of life in Central City, but he’d basically ignored it up until now. Mick didn’t need a pack; he had Len. That was good enough, right? “Is that necessary?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Werewolves aren’t meant to be alone – the lone wolf thing doesn’t go well when mixed with humans. Irritability, instability, volatility…it’s all very unfortunate.”

Len scowls. Sure, Mick’s been having some problems adjusting over the last few months, but they’ve been managing. He’s not giving Mick up to some _pack_.

“Don’t worry, Lenny,” Mick says, chuckling like he finds something funny. “I’ll be much better now. I was resisting it, you know, for a while, but now I’ve got it all figured out.”

“How’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it, Lenny,” Mick says, his fingers skating up from Len’s shoulders to linger at his neck. “Relax. And eat up, like I said.”

“You didn’t say what we were going to do later.”

“Oh, but I did,” Mick says, and Len can hear the smile in his voice. “Yesterday.”

Len thinks back to some of the stuff Mick was saying and his eyes go wide. “Uh – which part?”

“The most important part of starting a good pack is having a good mate to help take care of it, and you have to keep your mate nice and happy and healthy to get there,” Mick says pragmatically. “Now eat up.”

Len blinks and looks down at his plate, then up at Mick again.

“Mick, when you say starting a pack, you mean, like, in the gathering up a crew sense, right? Not in, like, the kids and starting a family sense. Right?”

“More pancakes?”

“ _Mick?!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I am, for no particular reason, incredibly into this fic's universe and am entirely willing and eager to write more for this, but would like suggestions as to what people want to see. Please send me requests for things you'd like to see, either in the comments or at robininthelabyrinth, and I will write them - seriously, anything you'd like to see in the universe, let me know, I want ideas.


End file.
